


who needs comfortable love?

by honeybeebutch



Series: kindly, now [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, my timeline now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybeebutch/pseuds/honeybeebutch
Summary: It goes like this:Eric Delano has been… cavorting with Michael Shelley for some time now. He’d given a lot of thought to what to call what they were doing, but hadn’t quite settled on a word. Sneaking around? Canoodling in storage closets? Cheating on his wife who never really loved him in the first place?
Relationships: Eric Delano/Michael Shelley
Series: kindly, now [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622509
Comments: 14
Kudos: 76





	who needs comfortable love?

**Author's Note:**

> So I know the timeline doesn't really line up and there's no evidence they ever even met in canon, but what if Michael Shelley and Eric Delano were the same age and worked at the Institute at the same time and fell in love? Haha jk, unless...?
> 
> Thank you to Monty for beta'ing this for me!!

It goes like this:

> Eric Delano has been… _cavorting_ with Michael Shelley for some time now. He’d given a lot of thought to what to call what they were doing, but hadn’t quite settled on a word. Sneaking around? Canoodling in storage closets? Cheating on a wife who never really loved him in the first place? The two of them had been working late on a shared project, long after all the other employees had gone home, and Eric couldn't deny that there was something in the way Michael looked at him – he's not completely oblivious. So he let his hand linger on top of Michael’s on the small table over a stack of papers, brushing his thumb across the knuckles, his soft skin. He pushed past him far too close, just to put a hand on the small of his back. Reached out and adjusted his tie, trying to broadcast _if you did, I would let you_ with his eyes, and when Michael finally kissed him against the breakroom counter, bringing his long fingers cradling Eric’s face, he had panicked and they’d both nearly tripped over themselves reassuring the other – hurried, “I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” and “can you kiss me again?” and “yes, please.” But it’s not like it’s _serious_. It’s a distraction. Someone to care about who would care in turn. Someone to talk to about how Gerard was growing up, starting grade school soon, doesn’t the time just fly by? Someone to talk to about Mary’s… eccentricities.
> 
> “ _Eccentricities_.” Michael had echoed incredulously when he’d said that, his long limbs tucked under himself so he could curl into Eric’s side on his ratty couch. He’s told him all of it, of course – the bodies Eric had found over the years, the books that were Off Limits for reasons he could guess pretty well at, her theory about the Fears. The sick _dynasty_ she was trying to create. Gerry was sitting on the floor, watching some weekend cartoon, and Mary was off doing god only knew what, like always, and Eric hadn’t wanted to be alone, so – Michael. It wasn’t weird. It didn’t have to be weird, he told himself. Michael was a friend, and friends visit each other, and meet each others’ children, and sometimes friends steal kisses while the kettle boils, and sometimes friends turn out to be really good with kids, building towering structures out of Legos and dutifully following whatever convoluted fiction Gerry’s made up for his Lego men this time, and sometimes friends start to fall in love when they realize that. 
> 
> It stirs up a complicated batch of emotions for Eric, and he settles for dropping a kiss on each of their heads (Gerry barely reacts, engrossed as he is in the rescue of Lieutenant Astronaut from the rainbow tower; Michael smiles softly and pats his hand where it lights on his shoulder). Sits on the couch with a book he opens but does not read, and tries to pretend his life is normal. That this is a normal Saturday with his boyfriend and his son, and not a reprieve from haunted books and a haunted job and a wife who preferred to do the haunting herself.

It goes like this:

> Eric does not say “I love you” to Michael, but he begins to keep some clothes at Michael’s flat. He does not say “I love you” to Michael, but kisses him softly when Michael shyly but pointedly mentions that his flatmate is out of town this weekend if he’d like to come over. He does not say “I love you” when Michael gets a little too heated over a documentary about marine life, but he knows the fondness in his eyes would betray him if Michael wasn’t looking only at the television.
> 
> “It’s not accurate,” he nearly yells, and then says something about coral reefs and light cycles, and Eric kisses him because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something rash like say “I love you.” He doesn’t say “I love you” in bed later, as Michael takes him apart with fingers and lips, kisses him again to shut himself up – thinks about how there are better habits to have than kissing to avoid talking about feelings. There are probably worse ones, too, he thinks as he finds a different way to occupy his mouth. He doesn’t say “I love you” as they cling to each other afterwards, naked and spent, but he does say “stay with me,” and Michael laughs, that breathy, halting laugh of his, and reminds him that it’s _his_ apartment and he’s not going anywhere, and wraps his limbs around Eric and kisses his neck, and that’s alright.

It goes like this:

> Michael is taking a trip to Russia with the Head Archivist. It’s nothing new; they’re going for an investigation, Gertrude had said. Michael hadn’t pressed for details. He idolized her in a grandmotherly way, Eric knew, and he wasn’t the type to ask questions about this kind of thing. Eric had gotten a bad feeling when Michael told him over lunch – a deep, heavy dread in his gut. Intuition. But Michael wasn’t worried, was convinced that, if it was anything like previous investigations, he’d conduct a few interviews and spend the rest of his time on a work-sanctioned arctic vacation.
> 
> “Some vacation. Does the sun even rise, that far north?”
> 
> Michael just swats him on the arm and laughs – and Eric will never get tired of that laugh, it’s beautiful and distinctly _Michael_ – “It does this time of year, silly,” and Eric falls a little more in love, and the dread gets a little heavier. He tries to convince himself it’s nothing more than misplaced paternal instinct. Of course he’s worried, someone he loves is going abroad, it’s fine to be a little worried. It’s normal. But when he drops Michael off at the airport, he feels his eyes prick with inexplicable tears. It’s a little embarrassing; he’ll only be gone for a week and a half. They’re grown ups, he doesn’t need to _cry_ at this. Michael makes a concerned noise anyway and leans down to kiss his cheek, and his lips come away wet and salty. He promises to call when he can and text every day – “If that’s not too much?” - and Eric nods and kisses him before he can do anything rash like tell this man he loves him for the first time in an airport.

It goes like this:

> Eric overthinks things. It’s part of what makes him such a good researcher. So he ruminates on the whole “confession of love” thing. And despite being a pathological overthinker, he’s frustratingly stubborn once he’s made up his mind, so after two days of texting back and forth with Michael, he decides that the first “I love you” should be in person. So. When Michael gets back, he’ll tell him. He still types out the words and deletes them a few times, just to see how they look on the screen. They look lacking. They’re not good enough, on the screen. And Michael sends him pictures of landmarks and the inside of a museum he visits, and Eric sends back pictures of the buildings Gerry makes out of Legos; they get taller every day, and Eric jokes that he’s learned that from Michael, on the phone a few days into the trip, and Michael goes quiet for a minute. Then he says “You think I’m a good influence?” And Eric swallows some tears – good tears, and says of course he’s a good influence. Doesn’t say “you’d be a great dad.” Doesn’t say “Gerry loves having you around, and wants you to live with us.” Doesn’t say “I want you to live with us, too.”
> 
> Doesn’t say “I love you.”
> 
> He regrets that, later.

Because it goes like this:

> Michael calls him from a payphone the next day and tells him they’re leaving the mainland by boat, and he probably won’t have signal until they return to Dikson. He says he’ll call as soon as he’s able. Eric tells him to stay safe, and he can hear the way Michael rolls his eyes at that. Says of course he’ll stay safe. Says goodbye, and the tone of his voice suggests that maybe he had one more sentence to say. But he doesn’t – say it, that is – and he and Gertrude cross the Kara Sea.

And it goes like this:

> He doesn’t hear from Michael again. He wonders how much of their ten-day trip was supposed to have been spent off the mainland. Wishes he hadn’t forgotten to ask. He distracts himself, instead, the only way he knows how: research. He buys another tub of Legos at a charity shop and spends hours, with and without Gerry, figuring out how to build taller and taller towers with sturdier and sturdier bases, and his stomach swoops every time they inevitably fall. He stays late at work, throwing himself into the research, and, four days into the radio silence, he remembers something. Michael had mentioned a name, hadn’t he? Sannikov Land. An island. And when the Archive turns up nothing, he scours the atlases and reference materials at a regular, non-spooky library. Nothing. No mention of an island called Sannikov. And when a librarian asks if she can help – he must look frazzled, desperate, and truth be told he hasn’t been sleeping well – he tells her what he’s looking for, and she steers him away from atlases and toward religion and mythology, and picks out a book of legends from around the world. Says it’s one of her favorites, and she hopes it will help. He thanks her despite the sinking feeling in his stomach.
> 
> He finds it in the index, under _Z_ for _Zemlya Sannikova_ , and learns that the island Michael was going to does not exist, and never has. He reads the few pages about the legend of Sannkikov Land, puts the book back on the shelf, goes home, and quietly cries in the bathroom. He can’t even try to convince himself that it might be a mistake, that maybe he misheard Michael, or misremembered the context. So he cries in the bathroom until it’s time to cook dinner, and then he compartmentalizes so he can pretend to be okay.

It goes like this:

> Gertrude Robinson returns from Russia alone, and does not mention anything having happened to Michael Shelley. Eric does not ask for two reasons: one, he already knows, broadly speaking, what must have happened, and does not _really_ want confirmation if he died screaming, or in pain, or alone and scared – no, not knowing is better. The second reason is that he is a coward. He owns up to it, now: he is a coward for not telling Michael he loved him, he is a coward for not leaving Mary, and he is a coward for not confronting Gertrude about what happened in Russia. But her eyes are cold when they light on him, and if she knows the depth of his feelings for Michael, she does not see it necessary to offer condolences, or even acknowledgment.

It goes like this:

> Eric decides to quit the Institute. It turns out that’s not as easy as it sounds.

It goes like this:

> Eric is nothing if not stubborn, when he makes up his mind.

It goes like this:

> The last thing he sees is a picture of his son’s face. The last thing he hears is Mary’s quiet huff of exertion as she drives the shears into his chest.

It goes like this:

> The last thing he thinks, after the skinning and the promises and the empty confrontation at last, is wonder at this man-made afterlife, wonder at final cruelties, and wonder at where Michael had ended up after all. And when he finally burns, he swears he hears laughter, breathy and burbling and spiraling.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Comfortable Love by Keaton Henson. Go listen to it, because it's a very good song for this fic and Keaton Henson makes me very sad.
> 
> edit: fixed the formatting
> 
> i always love comments please leave comments, i can't live without them


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